


Creative Coercion

by jessahmewren



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Inspired by Poetry, MSR, Romance, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessahmewren/pseuds/jessahmewren
Summary: Mulder finally persuades Scully to go out with him.





	1. Thoughts that Breathe

-0-0-0-

"At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet." --Plato

-0-0-0-

He was watching her.  Scully could feel the heavy heat of his eyes, the way he tracked her movements, slight as they were, as her pen moved across the page.  

"Say it, Mulder."

He cleared his throat, and while she did not look up at him, she could feel the slight disturbance in the air as he crossed his legs and leaned back a little in his office chair.  She also knew without looking at him that he was peering at her intently and with the slightest glint of mischief.

"Say what," he asked with a convincing display of ignorance.

She stilled her movements, stopping her pen on the gentle arc of a cursive "L" mid-stroke and looked up at him.  He radiated warmth; from the honey-gold tint of his skin to the gentle smile that played along his lips to his open disregard for personal space, Mulder was warmth and light and knowing even on his worst days.  

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she relented, forgetting to be angry with him for whatever it was that was supposed to have angered her.  He seemed to sense this, instincts ever acute, and his smile broadened.

"Go out with me tonight."  

The pen slipped from her grip and clattered to the concrete floor of the basement office. "Shit," she muttered sullenly, hoping her momentary lapse of composure would dissuade Mulder from his latest entertainment: watching her squirm.  

Her heart was still catching up to her breath when Mulder reached down and scooped up the pen before she could get to it.  He waggled it teasingly in front of her.

"Go out with me. Tonight."  

She narrowed her eyes at him, hands protectively draped over the paper she'd been writing on.  

"No."

He appeared wounded, but she knew from their usual dance that this was merely part of the act.   She narrowed her eyes at him. "What would you have me say, Mulder?"  

He pursed his lips, the fascinating curve of his chin jutting forth ever so slightly.  "I would have you say yes," he said simply. His eyes sparked with a new curiosity as he noticed her hands shielding the paper on lap.  "What were you writing, anyway?"

Scully unconsciously spread her fingers in an attempt to hide her activities, shrugging her shoulders as if to feign disinterest despite the tension in her arms.  "Nothing," she said tightly as her fingers curled over the edge of the legal pad. She averted her eyes.

It was no use.  Once Fox Mulder was on the trail of something, be it person or thing, he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied.  His eyes centered on the small legal pad she now held crushed against her breasts.  He was coiled, ready to spring on her, and there was a predatory gleam in his eye as he slowly approached her.

"No, Mulder," she said warningly.  "You wouldn't dare."  

Her eyes were wide, the whites almost blue as she stared at Mulder defiantly.  Secretly, he smiled, for he already knew what lay pressed against those lovely breasts of hers.  The hobby she had taken as of late, a means of relaxing after especially difficult cases.

He smiled knowingly and tilted his head, looking at her.  "And indeed there will be time to wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'" he recited with an air of haughtiness, "time to turn back and descend the stair...with a bald spot in the middle of my hair.'" He chuffed dryly and looked at her, his eyes sparkling.  “At least I still have all my hair, Scully.”

She quirked her mouth into a tight smile, relaxing a bit at his humor.  "You're hardly Prufrock, Mulder."   _But he's never sounded sexier_ , she finished inwardly.  She pursed her lips.  "Have you been going through my desk again?"  

He leaned into her space, allowing his knuckles to brush casually against the fabric of her blouse. He slipped the pen into her hand, noting the change in her breathing, how she straightened almost imperceptibly at the newness of his proximity.

"Go out with me tonight," he said sultrily, "and I'll keep your secret Scully." He narrowed his eyes darkly, but failed to drive all of the amusement from them. "Turn me down again, and there will be photocopies of your latest verse on every bulletin board on every floor of this building come Monday morning."  

She scowled, refusing to meet his eyes.  If she turned her head only slightly to the right, their lips would meet.  He smiled to himself.  Her deep frown had wrought that line in her brow that only appeared when she was thoroughly pissed off.  He could smooth it with his tongue...

"I hope you know that's cruel, Mulder," she said to the corner of the room. "Impossibly cruel."  

He opened his lips to speak, and she could feel the faint puff of air from that movement brush against her cheek. "No more cruel than you constantly turning me down, Scully."  His lips curled into a languid smile, enjoying the effort it took for her not to turn her face into his.

 _Damn him,_ she thought.  Scully sighed. Perhaps giving in to him was the best way to thwart these relentless advances and finally get some peace.  She met his gaze, her nose nearly brushing his, her arms folding even more protectively over the yellow legal pad.  "Fine," she spat out.  "But don't pick me up. I'll meet you there."  

-0-0-0-

Scully sat in a dark alcove of the jazz club, her thighs pressing into the cool leather upholstery of the booth as ribbons of nerves alternately tied and unknotted themselves in the pit of her stomach.   _This isn't a date_ , she reassured herself.  _This is two people having dinner_.

The club was draped in royal blue velvet, suffused with gas lamps and candlelight and shrouded in shadows. The table she had been directed to upon arriving was a secluded corner booth situated in the back of the club; it sat in near darkness, not far from the bar but removed from the general floorplan. Despite its seclusion, Scully had a clear view of the stage where a sultry, statuesque woman sang Billie Holiday in the pale eye of a single spotlight.

Scully passed a nervous hand over her hair; it was swept to the side and secured with a simple silver clip. She wondered suddenly if she shouldn't have taken more time with it.  Her heart was racing, and she took another long sip of her chardonnay in an attempt to slow it.  

 _Just two people having dinner who just happened to be extremely attracted to one another_ , she thought bleakly.

On the tail of that thought, she looked up in time to see Mulder enter through a side door, his tailored suit a dark charcoal grey.  He wore no tie, and the first three buttons of his shirt were undone.  

 _I'm screwed_ , she thought.  He caught her eyes across the room and he smiled; it was a brilliant, genuine smile he reserved only for her.  His face was tan and smooth, and his eyes were the color of chocolate.

 _More than screwed_.  She took another sip of her chardonnay.

Mulder settled across from her in the booth.  He was more stripped down and relaxed than she had seen, and Scully was drawn to him.

"Thank you for coming," he said a little sheepishly.  "I wasn't sure you would."  

She was surprised by his demeanor, by the apparent absence of his usual ease and confidence.  She set her mouth.  "You didn't give me much choice," she said flatly. "What with blackmailing me and all."  

He laughed then and motioned to a server. "I wouldn't say it was blackmail, exactly," he said, eyeing her, "but I will admit to employing a little creative coercion to get you to say yes."  

Her mouth quirked into a tight smile.  "Creative coercion," she parroted. "That sounds like blackmail to me."

Mulder only looked at her, the light from the single candle on their table playing softly against the smooth planes and angles of his face.  "So how long have you been writing," he asked her quietly.

She dipped her head slightly, studying a stray bubble on the surface of her chardonnay.  When she lifted it again, she met his eyes. "Since high school," she said easily.  "But I put it down for awhile.  For a long time, actually."  She smiled softly.  "Figured now was as good a time as any to take it back up again." She fingered the stem of her wine glass.  

He nodded thoughtfully as the server arrived with his scotch and placed a fresh chardonnay in front of Scully.  She smiled at him, a soft, blushing show of gratitude that Mulder instantly envied. He held the amber liquid up to the candle and watched the light refract, creating a brilliant kaleidoscope that complimented the cut crystal tumbler.  He took a swig.  

Scully was beautiful, always beautiful, but tonight she was even more so.  His throat tightened as he looked at her, ivory skin stretched over the elegant structure of her shoulders and neck. Black lace capped each shoulder, framing her face, providing a neutral canvas for the shock of deep red that colored her full lips.  It was that hue that peppered the apples of her cheeks and sparked in the deep blue of her eyes. The blush was the chardonnay, he decided, but he envied that too, preferring that his attentions rather than any libation be responsible for sullying such perfect skin.  

"So," she began, a bit unnerved by his attention and needing to break the tension between them. "Did you see anything you like?"

He swallowed hard, his eyes flitting to the lovely swell of her chest.  He'd seen plenty that he liked.  Plenty.  Now if only--

“Mulder?"  

He looked up to find Scully staring at him, a bit bewildered.  "Hmm?  

Her clear laugh broke through the fog of his fancy and he took another drink of scotch.  

"I asked if you liked any of my poetry," she said with a little uncertainty. "Did you?"

Mulder set the glass down heavily and watched the remaining contents settle in the bottom.  "I didn't read them," he said quietly. "I recognized what I was reading almost immediately and decided not to invade your privacy any more than I already had." He swallowed.  "Than I already do."  He looked at her warmly and strangely apologetically.  

She exhaled, somewhat chagrined by the amount of relief she felt, and concentrated on the smooth, steady beat of the music to temper her anxiety.  Mulder had grown up with a with a finer pedigree...the last thing she needed was him critiquing her very amateurish attempt at poetry.  Still, that he had exercised such restraint, such respect for her creative thoughts was warming.  

"Well, she said teasingly, drawing out the vowel, "would you like to hear one?" She caught his eyes over her raised glass, a prim smile on her face.  

He swallowed, looking into her deep blue eyes with some trepidation.  Was he ready to hear the innermost ponderings of her heart?  And what would be the repercussions of that? What if the ponderings of that heart were the tortured verses of a damaged life, words scarred by uncertainty and secrecy, for most of which he was to blame? Was he prepared to truly see Dana Scully for who she was, without pretense?  

"When you're ready to share," he said quietly, hoping that time would be later rather than sooner.  He was fiercely protective of her trust; he and Scully had run the emotional gamut in the years they had known each other.  They had a partnership built on absolute trust.  Mulder was skeptical of anything that might threaten that, even if it held the promise of bringing them closer together.

The server arrived with their meals; Spaghetti Carbonara for Mulder and for Scully a mushroom ravioli. Scully shot Mulder a questioning glance, knowing she hadn't ordered and that none of the other patrons were eating. He only smiled.  They ate, the smooth jazz thrumming around them, cushioning the comfortable silence between them.  

Mulder had shared a handful of actual meals with Scully.  Most of the food the time their meals had been in the context of work--shared Thai in the back of a surveillance van, or fast food stuffed down in their shared basement office.  Every now and then they would have a quick meal in a backwater town and then it was back to chasing little grey men.  

He would make the most of this night, he thought as he watched her chew, drinking in the savoring and slow way she worked her tongue around the fork.  Her eyes drifted to half moons, her face relaxed as flavor exploded over her tongue.  She did not swallow right away; she grew still, her mouth smooth and lips full, and then she opened her eyes to look at him watching her.  In the stasis he longed to kiss her, to share in whatever enraptured her so, but instead he sat there at the little corner table, his growing erection straining against the prison of his slacks and watched Scully tip her chin ever so slightly heavenward as the morsels slid their way down her sinuous throat.  

"I can hear you thinking," Scully said rather intimately as she looked up over her empty plate.  She angled her head until the candle in the center of the table cast one-half of her face in shadow.  "Are you going to tell me why you coerced me into coming here tonight Mulder?" Her eyes were warm, luminous with the satisfaction of a delightful meal and good company.

Mulder licked his lips. "Is that what this is," he asked quietly, acknowledging to himself the low burlap of his voice, a direct result of his aroused state.  He took another swig of scotch, slowly dragging his eyes away from her breasts and up to her face.  "Coercion?"

She noted immediately the change in his demeanor.  He was no longer the quasi-shy boy on a date; it hadn't suited him anyway.  Maybe it was the scotch, but Mulder’s eyes were dark and they glittered with a dangerous light.  

"You said so yourself," she said, leaning forward, testing the waters. "Creative coercion."  

He pressed his lips together.  "Maybe I just wanted to watch you eat," he said.  "It reminds me of a poem."  He worked his mouth, his groin twitching at the thought of that fork ensconced in her warm, wet mouth.

Mulder scooted closer to her, needing to diminish their distance, sliding over the smooth leather seats until his body was angled with hers, but not touching.  He noted her curious glance, but also how she did not shirk away from him.   _Good_ , he thought.   _There is that at least_.  His arm ran along the back of seat, dangerously close to her hair.  Her heart was beating double-time and it was suddenly a conscious effort to breathe.

"Don't be polite," he began in a low rasp, "Bite in."

Scully pulled in her lower lip and worried it between her teeth. A coil of heat unspooled and settled in the pit of her stomach. She could feel the wetness of arousal between her legs.

"Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin," he recited, gently moving a portion of her hair away from her shoulder, exposing it to the cool air.  "It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are."  

"Mulder..." she began, already breathless, already weak, not wanting him to stop but needing him to, needing for their assigned roles to main intact.

He ignored her, choosing instead to slip his fingers beneath her hair until they rested hot against the back of her neck.  "You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth," he puffed against her ear.  His face was very close to hers, angled to her neck.   _Sniffing her?_ she wondered wildly _._ She felt dizzy.  

"...for there is no core, or stem, or rind, or pit, or seed, or skin, to throw away."

The tip of his nose just brushed the delicate skin below her ear, and she bit down on a gasp.   _Had he kissed her?_   No, she decided, he had not, but he was slowly driving her mad.

"That was..." she searched for a suitable adjective. "Erotic."

He smiled, exhaling a short little amused huff, and she could feel the warmth of it stirring the tiny hairs on her neck.  

"'How to Eat a Poem' by Eve Merriam," he rumbled darkly.  

"Never heard of her," she managed tightly.  Mulder still hovered by her neck, agonizingly close to closing his lips over her throat, and all she could think of was how she wished he would.

"She wrote children's poems mostly, like that one," he replied, drawing out the last few words as his lips brushed her hair.  

"That was no children's poem," Scully countered thinly, her eyes half-closed. She ached for him, the warning bells in the back of her mind long quieted. She needed his touch, the taste of him in her mouth.  She wanted him sunk deep within her, hard and fast until she was sore the next morning.  She needed  _him_.  

"So much of poetry is about perspective," Mulder said, quietly withdrawing.  Her body sang plaintively at his retreat, but the rational, self-punishing part of her was happy for it.  He looked into her eyes.  "So much of the enjoyment of poetry is what we bring to it."  

She took another sip of her chardonnay, swallowing until her hand no longer shook.  She carefully placed the glass on the table alongside her empty plate, and that's when she saw it.  

Fox Mulder, angled in the booth beside her, was fully aroused.

She swallowed hard, trying to rake her eyes away from the prominent tent of his trousers.   _I did that_ , she couldn't help but think.  _Me_.

His face was flushed slightly, his pupils dark.  He looked feral, on the verge of losing control despite his placid expression. She had seen him like this only a few times, but the engine of that transformation had never been sex, but rage.  And, she admitted, she'd been wary of what he might be capable of in those moments.  Now, though, standing in the blistering heat of his near-volatile passion, she wanted to be engulfed.  She wanted the sun of his desire to completely consume her, to burn away every shred of who she had been before she had met Fox Mulder.

She tore her eyes away from him long enough to see the server arrive and retrieve their plates, and Mulder straightened in his seat.  She was thankful for the reprieve, but she also rued it.  An idea presented itself then, and before she had time to talk herself out of it, Scully had beckoned the server closer and whispered something in his ear.  Mulder was intrigued; he could see the minute change in her and was certain his poem from earlier had affected her in some way.

His reciting it was a shameless attempt at seduction, he owned that, but he was also not sorry.  Mulder was drawn to Scully like the proverbial moth to a flame.  Being in such proximity to her for an extended period of time tonight, alone, had been the tipping point on his restraint.  

A few moments later, Mulder saw that same server whisper something to the band leader who stood atop the small stage in the front of the club.  The man approached the microphone, and a small beam of milky spotlight illuminated him from above.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentleman. Open Mic Night is still a few days away, but we have someone willing to contribute their talents to our little soirée tonight, so if you please, give a warm Blue Pearl welcome to Dr. Dana Scully."  

Quiet, almost polite and scattered applause spread throughout the small gathering; there were no more than twelve or so couples at this exclusive club, and they were so enveloped in shadows that Scully could only see their hands.  

She cast a glance at Mulder, and for the first time that she could remember, he looked truly surprised.  And pleased. His lips curled into a knowing smile as he clapped along with the others.  She favored him with a shy smile of her own.  

"Looks like it's my turn." She quirked her eyebrow at him. "A poem for a poem?"  

He said nothing, but he worked his mouth in that knowing way of his and watched her stand, adjust her dress and smooth her hands at her waist.  She leaned over and placed her hand on his arm. "Wish me luck," she said huskily, locking eyes with him, close enough for Mulder to have claimed her mouth simply by leaning into her touch.  He didn't.  He caught her faint perfume from before, and his throat constricted.  "Break a leg," he choked out, but it was strained and not his voice.  

 _Dana Scully has ruined me_ , he thought as he watched her walk away.  She flashed him a winning smile over one shoulder.  

 _I am happily ruined_.

-0-0-0-


	2. Words that Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Xmas Files Creative Challenge on Tumblr. Day 15: Marshmallows.

 

-0-0-0-

"Poetry is just the evidence of life.  If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash."

\--Leonard Cohen

-0-0-0-

Mulder watched her walk to the stage, winding her way through the close tables in the small jazz club.  It was the first time he'd seen her entirely since arriving.  She wore a nude dress overlaid with black stretch lace.  It hugged her body provocatively, accentuating her lithe figure and gentle feminine curves until flaring ever so slightly at the knee. The sleeves were long and close-fitting, descending from a bateau neckline that secreted any cleavage but accented her breasts just the same.  Her face was a portrait, a meticulous painting of red and peach and startling blue framed by fire; he wanted to submerge himself in that aesthetic and never come up for air.  

Another moment and Scully had arrived at the stage; she ascended the small step and for a moment she was lost in shadow.  Mulder could scarcely make out the line of her body against the darkness until a spotlight somewhere snapped to life and there she was, glowing in the harsh white light.  

Scully blinked a few times, her hand over her brow to block the glare.  She scanned the audience, just smudges of color in the darkness…miniature marshmallows floating in a mug of hot chocolate.  When she lowered her hand, she realized it was shaking.  

She leaned into the microphone.  "Um...this is 'Bedroom Religion,'" she began without preamble.  There was a slight tremor in her voice, and her whole body vibrated with fantasies of running off stage and into the cool of the night, retreating into the safety of artistic anonymity and her little yellow legal pad stashed in a desk drawer in the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Up here she felt exposed, unprotected.

Until she saw him.  Mulder sat at their table in the ink shadows of the small club.  She could not see his face, but it was enough.  Nothing could happen to her now.  She was with Mulder--she had him.  

She turned to the band behind her, giving a little nod to them and then the smallest of smiles. She had both hands wrapped around the microphone as she waited for the music.

The drums started first, a lazy snare drum with a hitch of cymbal.  It was a swingy and irregular rhythm, and Scully began to loll her head in time with the music, her eyes closed.

Mulder swallowed hard, watching her, feeling very much like a voyeur despite the other people in the room. His pulse quickened, and he looked down at his hand and he had a fistful of tablecloth, the knuckles white.

"I want to worship..."she began a little hesitantly, "at the altar of your body." She breathed, easing into the task, and smiled. "I want to sing...hymns of ecstasy."

She began to move her body to the beat of the music, to the rhythm of her words, her hands floating up and down the mic stand as if caressing a lover.

"I want your hands

blessing me in places...

I want to be baptized

in your purifying fire."

Mulder’s throat was dry, and his breaths were coming in short pants as he watched her.  Scully's eyes were half closed, her feet shifting her weight, sending her hips undulating hypnotically to the rhythm of her poetry.  The pale spotlight set her on fire; she was the filament, the spark, and all eyes were on her.  

"Are you a believer?

Dear one then send me your prayers

let your words skate across my skin."

She hugged herself, letting her hands drift over her arms seductively.

"I need your healing

making me whole--”

Her eyes found the invisible thread of Mulder’s gaze in the darkened room and clung to it.

 "I want to belong

to the church of your love."

 The spotlight winked out and the stage lights went up.  The patrons were snapping their fingers, a throwback to the beatnik days of poetry readings in dingy basements and not out of place here.  A few held up their wine glasses, and their faces mirrored her smile.

She was halfway across the room before he realized he was touching himself.

 _Shit,_  he thought miserably.  Dana Scully had deduced him to a quivering pool of reaction, of raw and aching need.  

He closed his eyes, indulging for a moment, and consciously imagined her hands on him in this way, her body flush to his, feeling her heat, the searing silk of her skin.   

She approached the table slowly, her previous confidence dulled by a slowly encroaching sense of dread as she frantically tried to read his expression.   _What if he didn't like it? What if it wasn't any good?_

She slid into the booth quietly.  Mulder had a fresh scotch in one hand and the other traced the edge of his napkin.  She raised an eyebrow at him.  His face was flushed and he was sweating.

"Well?" she asked hesitantly, and it broke him from his trance.  His throat convulsed momentarily, trying to form speech.

"That was...erotic," he said, parroting her words from before.  "And I think you've converted me."

She laughed, a sweet, musical laugh that did nothing to ebb his desire for her.   _She had been worried_ , he thought unbelievably,  _actually worried that he wouldn't approve_.  

"Come here," he said roughly, holding out his arm. She slid over to him, her head angled for a polite kiss on the cheek.  

That was not his intended target.  Instinctively, his mouth bypassed the smooth silk of her cheek in favor of her lips, those lips that had imparted such an impassioned plea in her poetry, such a desire to be sated just moments ago.  He had not planned it, but Mulder realized that he was operating on sheer instinct now and that the normal rules of engagement between them did not apply.

He sighed as the contact was made, the most innocent of touches.  It was tenuous and electric, and they both pulled away almost instantly, simultaneously surprised.  

"Oh," Scully breathed, her eyes wide.  She pulled her plump lower lip between her teeth as if to suckle at the memory of their first kiss.

"I wish I could say I am sorry, Scully," he said roughly.  He smoothed a hand over her hair, his fingers betraying the slightest tremor. "But I could never regret kissing you."  

Her chest was rising and falling heavily; her eyes were soft with desire but also with wonder.  She licked her lips, savoring where he'd been. "No, it's ok," she said a little breathlessly. "It's fine."  

Her breathing had slowed a little, and she graced him with one of her genuine smiles.  _She was content to let this go_ , he thought,  _to let this moment pass into obscurity, to excuse it away as a fleeting impulse, a passing fancy influenced by jazz and spirits and the beauty of her words._   

He was not.

Mulder returned her smile, but it was darker and more lascivious.  His eyes flamed.  "Good," he growled in her ear, "because I'm not done yet."  

Suddenly he had her at the waist and had pulled her onto his lap before she had any time to protest. She cried out in surprise at the swiftness of his movements, at the rock-hard heat of his arousal pressing into her center.  

 _He feels so gooood_ , she thought indulgently, drawing out the vowel even in the theater of her mind.  Cold realization began to pierce through the fog of her desire.  

"Mulder," she gasped, bracing her arms on the cool leather seat behind them, "people will see us..."  

He nosed her neck hungrily, the scent of her arousal wafting up between them.  "We can clear this club with a wave of our badges," he rumbled against her skin.  "Is that what you want?" 

Her eyes fluttered closed as a new flush of arousal pooled at her core.   _He's barely touched me,_  she marveled,  _barely touched me and I'm this far gone._

Scully shook her head slightly.  It was dark, and at their table they were mostly out of sight.  "No," she stammered, "Don't."  She was breathing heavily, and before she could stop herself, she had moved suggestively against him, grinding her sensitive nerve endings into the hard length of him, desperate for relief.

He groaned at the contact, anchoring her at the waist, and mouthed the fluttering pulse at her throat. "Don't what," he asked silkily, causing gooseflesh to pebble her skin.  He was suckling at the tender flesh now, and she bit back a moan.

"Don't empty the club," she replied thinly and moved against him once more, this time with purpose, needing him there, everywhere.  "And don't stop."  

Mulder smiled into her neck; she had could feel the rasp of his faint stubble prickling her skin.  It set her body on fire.

He moved his hands from her waist, letting them glide over the bunched fabric of her dress.  He slid his fingers under the hem and pushed it the rest of the way up her thighs.  His large hands settled at her waist, hot and heavy.  

Scully looked down, suddenly astonished as if waking from a dream.  She was an FBI agent.  Her dress was around her waist and she was straddling her partner in a dark corner of a nightclub in Washington D.C.  She blinked, putting her hands on his shoulders and pushing him away a bit.  Her heart was racing.  "Mulder," she began haltingly.  She searched his eyes, momentary panic evident.  "What are we doing, Mulder?"

His hands moved around her waist to her lower back, making soothing circles there.  His desire pressed into her fully; she could feel its throbbing heat even through the soaked material of her panties.  Her breath caught in her throat.  "Shh," he cooed against her fevered flesh. "Don't think Scully.  Just feel."  

She stiffened anyway, her mind at obvious war with her body, with her heart.  He could feel the tension in her arms ebb a little as he dipped his mouth into the delicious hollow of her clavicle, sucking at the smooth silk pulled tight over bone.  He let his teeth scrape over its delicate surface, and she arched against him.

"We can't," she almost whispered, but her words didn't match her actions as she moved her head to the side, exposing her neck.  

"We can," Mulder murmured softly into the ivory column she offered.  "We already have."  He nipped a little at the tender flesh of her throat. "Besides," he said gently, "I haven't shared my favorite poem yet."  

She closed her eyes, losing herself to the sensation of his breath against her neck, of him rigid and ready beneath her.  Her sex throbbed, a torturous, hungry, aching throb at the thought of it, of how there were no more than a few layers of thin fabric that prevented the delicious fusion of their bodies.  She so wanted that...to feel his skin burn against hers.   _No more poetry_ , she thought wildly.  _No more words.  Just you Mulder...just you...your hands, your mouth.  Don't stop; don't ever stop._

"What's your favorite poem," she replied instead, speaking by-rote and not entirely sure of what she'd said.  

His smooth hands moved from her lower back, over her buttocks to trace the black lace at the edge of her French cut panties.  "I want to see you," he began as he slipped his hands beneath the edge of her panties and made contact with her skin.

She mewed; it was the only way to describe such a sound, a rich, throaty moan that went straight to his groin.  

"...know your voice," he continued.  "Recognize you when you first come 'round the corner."  

His hands squeezed her buttocks on the word "come" and pressed her to him sharply, encouraging her to move.  

She did, against her better judgment had she been thinking rather than feeling.  She moved her hips against him in an easy rhythm, feeling herself open to him more with every upstroke, imagining his hands, his mouth on her instead of the cool friction of his zipper.  

Mulder grunted with the contact, and then he began to move, too.

"Sense your scent when I come into a room you've just left..." he purred into her ear. "Mmm, and I do have to say Scully that you smell incredible."  

The sweet, smoky scent of her arousal filled his nostrils, testing his restraint.  She could smell it too, but instead of being embarrassed, she felt emboldened; she felt alive.  She ran her fingers through his short brown hair, then let them trail along the line of his face as she moved atop him.

"Know the lift of your heel, the glide of your foot," he continued, removing his hand to drift up her side and grope a breast.  She whimpered softly, throwing her head back as he increased the pressure.

"...become familiar with the way you purse your lips, then let them part," he said as his hand traveled up to cup her face--"just the slightest bit, when I lean in to your space and kiss you."  

He pressed his lips to hers; it was not the delicate kiss from before, but it was no less electric. He teased her lips with his tongue, entreating entry, and she opened readily for him, hungrily exploring the depth of his mouth.  Mulder tasted of scotch and desire, if desire had a taste, and she wanted more of it.  

She rolled her tongue over his and he moaned, his hips twitching into her with a ferocity that he had apparently tempered before.   She clamped her legs tightly around him, feeling breathless, ready to split in half, both terrified of and eagerly seeking a violent release.  Her breath came in little hitches, her eyes wide.  

When they broke the kiss he looked into her eyes.  His were wild, the pupils dark and rimmed with a beautiful fire.  She longed to be closer to it--to him.  She had only been singed by the flames so far; she wanted to be swallowed whole.

He moved against her, meeting her stroke for stroke. "I want to know the joy of how you whisper  _more_ ," he panted unevenly.  His voice was no longer steady, and he handled her roughly and without finesse.  Mulder stripped the silver clip from her hair and plunged his fingers in the titian strands, taking some of her hair with it.  She barely noticed, pain and pleasure one in the same.

"Show me more, Scully," he whispered as she rode him.  He felt his own orgasm building, and he wanted her with him.  "Show me everything."

She shook her head from side-to-side, her trembling arms traveling down to close over his dress shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists.  She could feel the soft, wiry hair over his heart even through the fine material.  

"Oh, God Mulder," she moaned softly.  She was grinding into him, unhinged and panting and not caring who saw. She was close...so very close...if only--

As if reading her mind, Mulder lowered his head, closing his teeth over one of her breasts, marking her even through the material of her dress.  She shattered, stifling a moan as she broke into a thousand tiny shards.   _They will sweep me off the floor of this club_ , she thought crazily.   _They will have to pour me into a cab_.  

She clenched Mulder's shirt until the buttons gave, and then she felt him gasp and tremble beneath her, bucking into her roughly.  He silenced their cries with a kiss; they were all clashing teeth and lathing tongues punch-drunk with mutual release and spinning into oblivion.

Scully sagged against him, the spots in her vision finally subsiding, her breathing regulated.  She could feel the steady beat of his heart as he recovered beneath her, and it made her smile.  

"What have we done," she said, a little awestruck but without a hint of remorse.  She looked up at his flushed face; he smoothed his hands down her trembling legs, giving them a gentle squeeze.    

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "we had a nice meal.  And we ruined a perfectly good suit."  

She laughed, and he relished the sound of it.  He wanted to hear it more often, among other sounds.  He wanted to see, hear, touch, and taste as much of her as she would allow him for the rest of his life.  

She nuzzled her head into his neck, still smiling.  "That's a shame," she said lightly, fingering his collar.  "I rather liked this one."  

He mouthed her ear, gently sucking the lobe, causing a tiny gasp to escape her lips.  He silently logged "earlobe" as one of Scully’s erogenous zones and flicked it with his tongue.

"I meant that," he said, suddenly serious.  "The poem...what I said."

He withdrew, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze.  "Do you want more, Scully?  Do you want more than this?  With me?"  His neck bobbed as he swallowed, awaiting her possible answer, and for a moment he looked as he had when he'd first walked into the club...shy and a bit uncertain.

She kissed him softly, feeling the stirrings of his renewed desire swell beneath her. "More," she whispered into the curve of his ear, and she could feel his contented hum vibrating in his chest. His hands were at her waist, as restless as magpies.  

He smiled; it was a brilliant, genuine smile reserved only for her.  He was staring at her lips, the curve of her nose, drinking her in.  There was such open love in his eyes that it stole her breath.  Mulder traced the edge of her panties, and his eyes sparkled.  

"I thought you'd never ask."

-0-0-0-


End file.
